


Though We Shall Land No More

by AcrobatElle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7153934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcrobatElle/pseuds/AcrobatElle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe if she could just <em>decide</em> how to feel about everything she could accept it and close her eyes, but her weary mind and battered heart refuse to take a rest.</p><p>A bit of Neverland smut set between the events of 3x06 and 3x07.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though We Shall Land No More

The birds and insects are especially loud that night. There's never truly a quiet moment in Neverland, but Emma is beginning to wonder if the noise is a reflection of everything going on in her head, as though the more her mind races, the louder they get. It certainly seems that way.

Sleep simply won't come. She can't remember the last time she felt so exhausted, but drifting off is proving impossible. She's slept in plenty of uncomfortable situations in her life. Group homes, park benches, the backseat of her Bug, filthy motels with unlaundered sheets.

A prison cell.

Her eyes drift to Neal's sleeping form, just on the other side of the fire.

Maybe if she could just _decide_ how to feel about everything she could accept it and close her eyes, but her weary mind and battered heart refuse to take a rest, refuse to make a decision and deal with the emotions, whatever they are. She feels everything, all at once and the constant buzz of the jungle is so loud and she's just so _tired_.

Her son is still missing. Neal is alive. Her father is trapped in this godforsaken place. Her mother thinks she isn't enough (she knows that's not really it, understands on some intellectual level but _God_ , that might have been the most painful of all). And Hook -

Hook.

Her gaze drifts over to him, the fire casting ghostly shadows across his face as he stares into it. It's his watch; she heard Mary-Margaret wake him at whatever ungodly hour this is and he hardly said two words to her, taking a seat near the flames and barely moving since. She's almost surprised he hasn't looked over at her; his eyes constantly seem to seek her out these days even when he thinks she doesn't notice. But no, he keeps his eyes trained on the fire and his hand is the only part of him he can't seem to keep still, turning his rings around with his thumb and occasionally clenching into a fist.

His confession might be the hardest to deal with even though it's the only one that didn't actually _hurt_ her, didn't want to make her cry or scream or run away, and that's a whole other set of emotions she doesn't have time to handle right now, not with Henry missing, and -

 _Henry is still missing_.

That simple, devastating thought is what she keeps coming back to, the one thing her brain keeps repeating over and over and it's enough to drive her mad. Enough to make her angry that she's even _thinking_ about anything else, God, her _son_ is missing and she won't be of any use to him if she can't be rested enough to find him. Thoughts of two years in Tallahassee keep her tossing and turning and she could lose her son just because she can't get her shit together long enough to -

She sits up abruptly and leaves the camp, the damp air suddenly suffocating her.

She doesn't go far, probably not more than 50 yards away, but it's just far enough into the jungle to avoid the light of the fire, to be out of sight of the camp. The Neverland sky is different every night; sometimes pitch-black, sometimes so filled with brilliant stars Emma feels as though she could reach out and touch them, pinwheeled galaxies swirling overhead. Tonight there are not one but three moons, each bright enough on their own but together making a torch entirely unnecessary.

She finds herself sitting on a large rock, her feet steering her there without any conscious thought, her elbows planted on her knees and shoulders slumped. She just needs to _breathe_ for a few minutes, to tamp down that urge to run away from everything and everyone and just get Henry her damn self, as suicidal of a mission as she knows it would be.

Just a few minutes.

The air is startlingly cooler away from the fire, weather she's not dressed for - a tank top isn't much to stave off the chill and it wakes her up, just a bit. She sighs and buries her face in her hands, trying to accept that sleep won't come for her, not tonight. Strangely, the creatures in the jungle seem to have quieted a bit, a small act of mercy that allows her headache to subside the tiniest fraction.

The reprieve is brief, as only another few minutes pass by before she can hear footsteps approaching. Her back stiffens and she waits, unmoving as they grow louder, pausing when they reach the tiny clearing and approaching behind her.

_Please don't be Neal. Please don't be Neal._

She catches a faint whiff of leather and rum as the figure crosses in front of her, taking a tentative seat on the rock next to her, not too close but just near enough that she feel the heat radiating off of him, and she closes her eyes in relief.

He doesn't speak for a long moment, doesn't even look at her before holding out his flask. "Care for a drink, Swan?"

She glances warily at the profferred rum.

"It might help you sleep."

She shakes her head. "The last thing I need right now is to get drunk."

"I'm not talking about getting drunk, love. I mean a drink or two to take the edge off long enough to let you sleep. You've had quite a day."

She tries to voice another protest only to realize she has none. She takes the flask with a mumbled thanks, savoring the burn of the rum and shivering when the warmth settles in her stomach. She takes another pull before returning it and closes her eyes once more, waiting for the alcohol to start flirting with the edges of her awareness, hopefully enough to calm her racing thoughts.

"You know, having Ba - Neal here can be an advantage. He likely knows this island as well as I do."

She hums but doesn't respond, not at first, and considers asking for another drink. Instead her mouth gets away from her, fueled by a sudden flash of anger at the mention of his name. "You know what he said to me today? That he wouldn't stop fighting for me." She finally glances at Hook and his face is impassive, waiting for her to continue. "He never started."

He blinks, the line of his mouth tightening almost imperceptibly. "He abandoned you."

It's not a question. She wonders just how much he sees, how much he's figured out about her. He certainly got plenty of material to work with at the Echo Caves.

She nods, unwilling to expand further. "Yeah. Yeah, he did."

Hook says nothing, merely offers her his flask once more. She takes it gratefully, one more swig before handing it back and staring off into the distance while they sit in silence. It's strange but not uncomfortable to be here with him like this, especially now that she knows he won't push for more information, that he doesn't _expect_ anything of her. It's nice to just… sit, to feel the slow creep of the alcohol into her veins, just as he said, not enough to get drunk but just enough to take the edge off.

The touch of his hand on her shoulder startles her, but she doesn't jump, merely raises an eyebrow at him.

"You're tense."

She laughs, a low, hollow sound. "No shit."

And then his palm is sliding, slow and careful and hot across her shoulder, underneath her hair and settling at her neck. His face is tentative, like he's not sure if he's overstepping, like he's waiting for her to pull away.

She should, she knows, but they stare at each other for a long moment and then his fingers and thumb are pressing in, a slow kneading at the muscles there and she nearly moans at how good it feels, her eyes drifting shut on a shuddering breath.

"This all right, Swan?" It's barely a whisper.

She nods, unable to find her voice, and he presses in again.

Emma melts against his touch, strong, sure fingers against her skin as he slowly works out the knots in her neck. For a few glorious minutes his hand slides up the base of her skull, his fingers threading through her hair as he massages the back of her scalp, goosebumps erupting over her skin at the sensation.

The tension falls away as he works at each shoulder in turn, a small weight lifted with each pass over her tired muscles. She hardly registers when he settles behind her for a better angle, his thumb soothing a knot between her shoulderblades with practiced ease. She can't stop the slight arch in her back when his hand slides down further, fingers pressing on either side of her spine in a slow, rolling motion that mimics the shiver running through her.

It's just what she needs, these easy, lazy strokes across her skin, like slipping into a warm bath after a cold day. His hand pauses at the small of her back, like he suddenly doesn't know what to do, and when she feels him flirting with the hem of her shirt she understands, waits for him, not even sure _she_ knows what she wants, wonders how his hand would feel against her bare skin.

He hesitates a moment more before abandoning that path, trailing back up her spine over the material of her shirt before returning to her neck, back where he started. He's gentler now, soft and easy against her skin until his hand finally stills, splayed flat against her, the only movement his thumb tracing soothing circles behind her ear.

Emma sighs, knowing he's done, glad that he stopped, wishing he would _never_ stop, just… floating, savoring a stolen moment with the tension gone, nothing in her head but how relaxed she feels, how _good_ his palm feels against her skin.

She doesn't even realize she's leaned back until she feels his sharp intake of breath against her. He doesn't say anything, just lets her lean her weight back against him, and he's so _warm_ , so easy to sink into. His hand leaves her neck and slides over her shoulder, a light caress up and down her bare arm, chasing off the cold.

Of all the things she expected out of Hook, tenderness isn't one of them. She's learned to constantly reset her expectations in the past week from the moment they shared a toast below the decks of his ship, but his touch, this near-embrace he's holding her in is something else entirely.

She should leave.

She should leave, but the warmth of him at her back is too inviting, too unexpectedly welcome, and his breath is hot against her ear and his hand slides past her elbow down to her own palm, his fingers briefly caressing the skin there before drifting back up to sweep her hair back and off to the side.

When his lips touch the delicate skin between her neck and her shoulder, she stifles her soft gasp and leans back into him further.

His mouth leaves her almost immediately and before she can apologize, get up and leave with burning cheeks and one more fucked-up relationship to deal with on this island, he shifts himself behind her, rearranging his limbs so his legs are on either side and gently pulls her back against his chest. It's such a relief she almost forgets what they're doing until his lips return to their original spot. Her inhale is sharp but he takes his time, his kisses almost chaste as he drifts up the side of her throat, such a contrast to the scratch of his stubble.

Heat flares between her legs as her hand reaches up and back, sliding into his hair and tightening her grip when she feels the lightest press of his tongue against her skin. His mouth is sinful against her throat, light and teasing and obliging, giving in to her silent request when she leans her head back and tilts her face up to his. His lips are familiar and tinged with rum, but the similarities between their first kiss and now end there.

It's slow, so agonizingly, perfectly slow, the way his mouth moves against hers. A dry press of lips at first, closed-mouthed and restrained. Then a soft pull at her lower lip, a slight increase in pressure that makes her tilt her head farther back. It's like the tide coming in, how he works himself into her mouth, slowly opening and tasting before pulling back and coming in again, just a little deeper each time, a little wetter, his tongue curling around hers and rendering her pliant and slack in his arms.

Emma finally breaks away when his hand slides under the front of her tank top, his palm burning against her skin as it traces lightly over her ribs before settling over her belly, his fingers teasing delicate circles just above the hem of her pants. They're breathing into each other's mouths, sharing the same air and she can't get close enough to him, not even when he kisses her again, long and deep as her hand falls from his hair, coming to rest on his thigh.

"Let me - " he starts, then seemingly gets distracted by the line of her jaw, pausing to nuzzle and mouth at the skin there, drifting until his lips just behind her ear, teasing at the sensitive skin while her hand tightens against his leg. "Let me take care of you, love," he murmurs.

She should leave. She doesn't give a flying fuck. She nods, fire crawling up her spine as he reaches down, over the seam of her pants and cupping between her legs, dragging his fingers back up with firm, even pressure.

Even through her clothing his touch is electric. Her moan is a strangled thing, breathy and high as he expertly pops the button on her pants. She slides down the zipper and lifts her hips, sliding the pants down a few inches to give him more room to work with. She suspects he doesn't need it to make her come apart, not with the way he's already got her writhing against him, but if he's going to give this to her she wants _all_ of it.

"Quiet," he reminds her, a sobering shot of reality as she realizes how close they are to camp, how easily she could wake the others if she gets too loud, but the thought flies from her head as those clever fingers slide down once again, beneath her clothing to where she's slick and wanting.

His hand was brilliant against the muscles of her back but a revelation between her thighs, his fingers stroking firm, steady circles against her clit as she lets her head drop back against his shoulder. He starts slow and easy, much like he did as he kissed her and the thought makes her crave his mouth again, a new flush running through her at the thought of his lips replacing his fingers. But she settles for tilting her face to his once more, revelling in the feel of his tongue and his hand working at her in equal measure.

It's intoxicating, to be so warm and aroused and wanted like this, God, she's never felt so intensely _wanted_ before. He slowly increases the pressure of his fingers before sliding two inside, palm scraping across her nerves and Emma inwardly groans and drops her head back once more, breaking the kiss and hanging on for the ride.

She keeps quiet as promised, the only sounds their collective breaths in the still night air and her heartbeat rushing in her ears. He takes his time, unhurried but attentive, taking note every time her hips buck against his hand, alternating between teasing inside of her and setting a rhythm against her clit. All the while he never stops kissing her, his lips drifting from her jaw to her ear to her throat to her shoulder and back again, lazy caresses that only serve to arouse her further but just light enough to not leave a mark.

Perhaps it's the nature of time in Neverland, how it never moves, that makes it last as long as it does - endless waves of pleasure that build up within her but never quite cresting, not until Hook wants them to, always the captain. He waits and waits, drawing it out patiently until she's a shaking mess in his arms, a whispered _please_ all it takes for him to give her what she needs.

She comes on a choked gasp, stuttering against his hand and falling farther back into him, closing her eyes against the sky only to see stars behind the lids. Every muscle in her that he'd so carefully worked loose tightens again only to relax back into a dim fog, a hazy sort of awareness just on the edge of consciousness.

She's still breathing hard when she blinks her eyes open once more and she can feel him doing the same against her back, his breath warm across her throat. Maybe tomorrow she'll panic at what she's just done (what was just done _to_ her) by Captain freaking Hook, but she can't bring herself to care, not when she's boneless and sated and ready to roll over and sleep for a hundred years.

And grateful, she realizes. Grateful for the rum, for his touch, that he's simply holding her and not making her talk. She shifts against him and can feel the hitch in his breath, his arousal pressing hard against her back.

She lolls her head back to look at him. "Do you nee - "

He cuts her off with a kiss, just a quiet meeting of lips. Another surprise. "Go to bed, Emma. I'll return to the camp shortly." His voice is tight but sincere, and she's almost glad that she can't quite meet his eyes at this angle, knows she couldn't handle what she'd see in them.

He seems caught off-guard when she kisses him once more, lazy and languid, and she hopes he can feel the thanks in it, the words she doesn't know how to say. She knows she's gotten the message across when she feels the slight curve of his mouth as she pulls away, moving to stand on shaky legs. She doesn't look back as she buttons up, but he returns her quiet "good night" before she makes her way back to the camp.

She drifts off before he returns, and dreams of sailing on an endless sea.


End file.
